


On the Ethics of Asking Your Professor on a Date

by MelayneSeahawk



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, And Aziraphale Doesn't Ask Crowley Out Until After The Semester Is Over, Book Elements, But If That's Not Your Thing I Get It, Good Omens Kink Meme, M/M, Professor Crowley (Good Omens), Seattle, Show Elements, The Author Loves Her City OK, adult-student!Aziraphale, auditing classes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: On the one hand, it seems wildly inappropriate to proposition his professor. On the other hand, it’s not as though he’s some infatuated adolescent looking to increase his grade—he doesn’t even have a grade. No harm it at least asking (though, maybe at the end of the semester, in case Dr. Crowley says no. Besides he should probably figure out the man’s first name first…)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535939
Comments: 55
Kudos: 217
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	On the Ethics of Asking Your Professor on a Date

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/) on dreamwidth, prompt: [adult-student!Aziraphale/professor!Crowley](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2773593#cmt2773593)
> 
> Many thanks to SugarMagic for helping me decide how to end this fic.
> 
> unbetaed, unBritpicked, we fall like Crowley

Aziraphale slid into his seat just as the professor started passing out the paper syllabi, panting slightly from having run halfway across campus where the bus had dropped him off late. He dumped his satchel on the floor, feeling a little silly squeezing himself into one of those desks with the attached arm for writing on. The professor quirked an eyebrow at him over his sunglasses as he handed Aziraphale a pile of papers to pass to those seated behind him. Aziraphale smiled wanly and did so, trying not to stare as the professor went back to the front of the room and tapped a button on his laptop to bring up the first page of the syllabus.

“Welcome to Ethics 101,” he said, tapping his fingers restlessly on the side of the laptop. “I am Professor Crowley, and you have the grave misfortune of being registered for my class. If you’re _not_ registered for Ethics 101, I’m not sure why you’re here,” he added with a positively devilish grin, and most of the class laughed.

“Now, I know most of you aren’t going to be majoring in philosophy, or if you are now, you may not be when I’m through with you,” he continued, and there was a scattering of laughter again. “Most of you will be taking this course as a gen ed requirement, or just because you thought it looked cool, or you’ve heard of my reputation.” He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He was dressed all in black, tall and slim, with a shock of red hair in a perfectly-styled quiff, and despite his stylish clothes and relaxed demeanor, he was probably of an age with Aziraphale. His accent indicated he hailed from the British Isles just like Aziraphale, though Aziraphale guessed that he was both from much further north and had either been in the States longer, or had made more of an effort to assimilate; even after twenty years in Seattle, Aziraphale still clung to his Welsh vowels with something akin to stubborn pride. “So, I’m not going to drive you ‘round the twist expecting this course to be your highest priority, and in return I only ask that you make it _a_ priority. Understood?”

There were murmurs of agreement around the room. Aziraphale was surprised. It had admittedly been quite some time since he’d sat in a university classroom, and in another country besides, but he’d never encountered a professor that was this cognizant of why their students were in the room. Aziraphale himself didn’t fall into any of the categories the professor had mentioned; rather, he was merely auditing the class for something to do, since his book-binding business took up comparatively little time and he had the others to run the bookshop for him. He was a big proponent of continuing his education, and while dear Anathema had told him about online options for such things, he preferred the more human touch.

“Now, I know all of you can read, so I’m not going to go over the syllabus in class,” the professor was saying, when Aziraphale drew his focus back. “The books are available in the campus bookstore or in the library; I’ve marked which ones are mandatory and which are just ‘nice to have’. If book access is a problem for you, come talk to me.” He glanced down at his watch. “Now, we’ve got forty minutes to kill. Give me some examples of ethical dilemmas in the modern world, so we can whet our appetites for what we’ll be discussing in upcoming weeks.”

Aziraphale listened with one ear as his classmates made suggestions, from the juvenile to the complex, the rest of his attention on looking around the room. As an entry-level course that was required for many majors, Ethics 101 was taught in a large lecture hall, seating some 200 students in tiered levels rising up from the lowest level, which contained a desk and laptop. There were large blackboards on the wall, the center covered by the screen the syllabus was projected onto. Aziraphale flipped through it to the book list and smiled: many of the works listed were actually in his personal collection or among the bookshop’s stock; it would be no problem to remove them for the length of the semester and then return them when he was done.

He brought his attention back to Professor Crowley, who was debating animatedly with a student about...oh dear, about abortion. Well, it looked like they really were diving right in, weren’t they. A small smile played around the professor’s lips as he delicately asked one question after another, which seemed to fluster the student (who was, admittedly, arguing that all abortion was murder and should be punished with the death penalty, so Aziraphale didn’t feel all _that_ sympathetic).

“Alright!” the professor said finally, when the student was red in the face and those around her were giggling slightly. “That’s enough for today. Readings are listed in the syllabus, please be prepared for lecture and questions on the reading next week. My office hours are listed as well.” He looked around the room, smiling that devilish smile again. “Let’s have some fun.” He really was very handsome.

_Oh dear,_ Aziraphale thought, as his view was blocked by the students around him dragging themselves to their feet and collecting their things before shambling out of the room. _This might be a problem_.

***

Professor Crowley’s course was the only one Aziraphale was auditing this semester, so the added work of doing the reading (never a hardship) and writing short essays about the topics (which weren’t even required, since he was auditing, but he wanted to do them anyway) did not put too much of a dent in his schedule. He still worked on the delicate bookbinding projects that paid the lion’s share of his bills, and sometimes he took his coursework downstairs to work on while he sat at the register, giving Anathema and Newton the time to shelve new acquisitions or take care of the plants, or just sit down in the backroom and have a cup of coffee.

The bookshop had been gifted to Aziraphale by its previous owner when the man had gotten tired of Seattle winters and retired to Arizona. Bernard had been very insistent on never selling a book if he could help it, and Aziraphale had continued that tradition, supporting the shop, his employees, and himself primarily with the money he made restoring books, and occasionally doing work for local auction houses or museums.

Anathema was also a student, working on her Masters in Comparative Religion at the University of Washington, the same university where Aziraphale was auditing Professor Crowley’s course. Newton had a degree in some kind of engineering, but after a number of computer mishaps, he’d decided a more low-tech career was required. Luckily, Aziraphale’s till was older than Newton himself was, and he did not accept credit card purchases in the shop itself, so it all worked out in the end.

Aziraphale had already known that he would likely be the oldest student in the class, since the others were primarily freshman and sophomores doing either prerequisites for a philosophy major or general education for something else entirely. The two TAs were grad students, but even they were only in their mid-twenties when Aziraphale himself would never see the younger side of fifty ever again. Aziraphale had amended his original estimate of the professor’s age, guessing he was at least a decade younger, from the way he interacted with the students, his ease with technology, and his cultural references. It discouraged Aziraphale from speaking up in class or recitation, but he did all the reading and turned in all his assignments on-time, so he figured he was doing alright.

And the discussions in class were fascinating, so it was well worth any discomfort he felt sitting in a classroom surrounded by children.

***

Class had actually become one of his favorite parts of the week by the time midterms rolled around. The way Crowley--as he insisted on being called--paced around the front of the room, gesturing animatedly as he lectured was certainly a lovely sight, but Aziraphale also enjoyed the discussions that came up, both in lecture and the smaller recitations led by the TAs. Aziraphale did not participate unless called on, but he loved to listen to the younger generation grapple with complex topics in a nuanced and careful way.

Aziraphale’s favorite classmates were a group of four freshmen in his recitation most called “The Them”, though whether that was said in admiration or disgust depended on who was speaking. Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale had apparently been friends since early childhood, and they were a delight to watch, whether they were debating amongst the four of them, or working together to argue with a fellow classmate they’d deemed wrong.

Aziraphale had been watching them with a smile on his face while they debated during the last lecture before the midterm. He felt eyes on him and looked over to see that, rather than watching The Them in the middle of the room, Crowley’s sunglasses seemed to be aimed at him. Aziraphale blushed and looked down at his notes, not lifting his head until Crowley announced the end of class.

“Remember!” Crowley called over the din of students packing up and chattering. “Midterm study guides are due in your next recitation! Office hours are extended between now and the midterm, but you must email to reserve a slot! Mr. Fell, if you’ll stay for a moment after, please.”

Aziraphale blinked and looked up quickly, to where Crowley was, indeed, looking right at him. He hadn’t even known the professor knew his name. He nodded jerkily, and Crowley nodded back once, turning his attention to a freshman who had approached the desk with a question. Aziraphale slowly loaded his things into his satchel and then stepped down into the pit of the lecture hall, waiting until Crowley was done packing away his own laptop and papers. The professor looked up when he was done, smiled slightly, and tossed his slim messenger bag over his shoulder, picking up the ubiquitous thermos he brought with him to every lecture.

“Good, you stayed,” he said, rounding the desk to stand next to Aziraphale. Another older adult with arms full of papers, came in the side door and made their way down into the pit. “Hallo, Dagon, alright there?” The other professor freed a hand long enough to wave, and Crowley waved back. “Do you have a few minutes?” he said, turning back to Aziraphale.

“Yes, I’m done,” Aziraphale said, a little warily. He’d done very well on all of his assignments, and barring the first day of classes, he hadn’t been late or turned anything in late. Why did the professor want to speak to him?  
  
“Excellent, walk with me,” Crowley said, heading to the lower exit from the room, which Aziraphale knew led to the hallway containing the faculty offices for the Philosophy Department. Aziraphale followed silently until they reached a door bearing a plaque that read _Crowley_ , a sticker saying “Protest Is Patriotic” covering where his first name would have been. Crowley unlocked the door and held it open for Aziraphale to precede him, flicking the lightswitch, though it only lit the room dimly, most of the light coming in from the windows along the opposite wall. “Sit tight, let me get some more coffee,” he said, waggling his thermos as he dropped his bag by the side of the desk, and then disappeared down the hall, presumably for a refill.

Aziraphale settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk and folded his hands in his lap, looking around the dimly-lit office. There were the expected shelves full of books and the desk stacked with papers to grade, but the rest of the cramped office was filled with plants. Jade plants and hibiscus and things Aziraphale didn’t recognize filled the windowsill or hung from the ceiling to take advantage of the light, and little potted succulents were tucked between the books and peeking around the edge of the computer monitor on the desk.

Aziraphale was still marvelling at all the greenery when Crowley came back. “Yeah, I know it’s a bit of a jungle in here,” he said, throwing himself into the chair behind the desk and taking a long drink from his thermos. “Hobby of mine. My apartment’s even worse.”

Aziraphale found himself blushing at that, for some reason. “They’re quite lovely,” he said, hoping it wasn’t visible in the room’s low light. “Really liven the place up.”

Crowley shrugged dismissively. “So, you’re not in trouble, or anything,” he said, bringing them back to the topic at hand. “Your work is excellent. It’s kind of too bad you’re only auditing, I’d be happy to give you very high marks.” He spun his office chair slightly, and Aziraphale found himself marvelling distantly at how he didn’t fall out. “Except for the fact that you don’t participate in discussion. Why is that?”

Aziraphale frowned, caught off-guard by the quick changes in topic, but after all that was the way Crowley lectured, too. “I suppose I want the other students to get more of a chance to speak, since they’re actually being graded,” he said slowly. “And I like hearing what they have to say. And I’m a little nervous adding my own opinion, since my life experience is so different from theirs,” he added, when Crowley raised a brow at him over the frames of his sunglasses.

“Exposure to other ways of being is good,” Crowley said, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. It could have been seen as rude, but Aziraphale already had a sense that Crowley was rarely still. “Especially in a class like mine. It forces people to acknowledge and question their own biases.”

“I’m not sure how much an old, white, gay bookseller brings to the table in that regard,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley laughed. Part of him considered getting offended, but the rest was just thrilled by the sound.

“Hardly,” he said, shifting to sit up straight and lean forward, hands pressed to the top of his desk. “You _are_ older, it’s true, but that means you’ve lived through things these kids have only read about in books, and you have life experience outside of school. And plenty of these kids are likely to come out as queer themselves in the next few years, statistically speaking, so seeing a Successful Queer Adult is good for them.” Aziraphale could hear the emphasis, and smiled slightly. “And, you’re not American originally, and that’s a perspective most of them have never encountered in a serious way.”

“Neither are you,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m the professor, that’s different,” Crowley said with a chuckle. “Anyway, I obviously can’t dock your grade for it, but I’d like you to participate in discussion more.” He smiled that devilish grin of his, and Aziraphale could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. The man really was so very handsome, and incredibly smart, too. “Anyway. You said you’re a bookseller. Somewhere here in Seattle?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, warming to the topic. The bookshop was always easy to talk about. “A.Z. Fell and Co, in Fremont.”

“Ah! I thought you looked familiar,” Crowley said. “You refused to sell me that first edition Noam Chomsky!”

“I’m sure I had a good reason,” Aziraphale said primly, and Crowley laughed. “The books given into my care deserve good homes where they will be treated properly.”

“Do you sell any books at all?”

“Occasionally,” Aziraphale said. “But I make most of my money doing restoration work.”

Crowley nodded. “Alright, well, I’ve said my piece,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “Get out of here, study for your midterm. We’ll be focusing more on non-Western concepts of ethics after the mid-break, and I expect to hear your opinions _in class_ more regularly.”

“Yes, Professor,” Aziraphale said, collecting his satchel and standing.

“Crowley, please,” he replied, and Aziraphale nodded, fleeing the office before he did something inadvisable, like ask the man out for coffee.

***

Aziraphale did well on the midterm, which was a series of short essays, and promised himself he would do as Crowley asked for the remainder of the semester. In the meantime, he busied himself with books and the shop, ignoring Anathema’s knowing look at the way Aziraphale blushed whenever Crowley was brought up. Newton either pretended to be clueless, or perhaps he actually was, but it meant Aziraphale was safe from the pointed questions whenever they were alone in the shop.

The second half of the semester had the additional benefit of being about philosophers and topics that Aziraphale was less familiar with, so it meant he was engaging with the texts differently, reading more deeply. He did speak more in class, and was pleased and a little embarrassed every time Crowley complimented him on what he said or just smiled at him.

“You should ask him out,” Anathema said one day, when they were alone in the shop. Aziraphale was seated at the till, idly reading the Bhagavad-Gita, and Anathema was shelving a box of recent acquisitions. At her words, Aziraphale dropped his book, which fell behind the till with a clatter.

“What?” he squeaked, dipping down below the till to both retrieve his book and avoid her eyes.

“You should ask Crowley out,” she said, enunciating as if she thought he couldn’t hear her clearly, rather than just that he was shocked by her suggestion.

“He’s my professor!” Aziraphale said, standing up. He gently placed the book on the counter, smoothing his fingers over the cover as if to apologize for dropping it, and then straightened his bow tie. “It would be highly inappropriate.”

“It’s not like you’re some 17-year-old freshman angling for a better grade,” Anathema said, putting down the books she was holding and turning to look at him, hands on her hips. “I’m pretty sure you’d be his type.”

“How do you even _know_ Professor Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, ignoring Anathema’s words entirely, though he felt himself blush.

“I double majored in philosophy and comparative religion for undergrad,” she said, flipping her hair behind one shoulder and going back to shelving. “He was my advisor for philosophy. Weird guy, but wicked smart,” she added, Boston accent coming through for a moment. She glanced sideways at Aziraphale. “We still grab coffee sometimes when we’re both on campus.”

“I had no idea,” Aziraphale said, blinking. “You’re friends with him?”

“Eh, professional friends, I guess you’d say,” she said, hefting another stack of books and climbing the slightly precarious stairs to the children's literature section in the little loft above the main floor. “He talks about this adult student auditing his intro ethics class sometimes,” she called down. “I assumed that was you.”

Aziraphale blinked, not sure what to say. He was the only older student auditing his class, he thought, but what if he was wrong? And what if Crowley was teaching more than one session of the course? And even _if_ he’d been talking about Aziraphale, did he really want to know what Crowley had said about him?

“Anyway, you should totally ask him out,” Anathema continued before Aziraphale thought of what to say. “I mean, wait until the end of the semester, if you want to be all _ethical_ about it, but you totally should.”

“Well, I _am_ taking an ethics course,” Aziraphale said faintly, and Anathema’s laughter drifted down from the loft. Aziraphale spent the rest of the day ruminating on it, ignoring both his reading for class and a pair of tourists who left in a huff after he just stared at them when they tried to buy a five years out of date restaurant guide that had been hiding in the travel section.

Asking Crowley out on a date. What a distressing and fascinating thought.

***

The semester continued as late fall gave way to winter, the days grey and cold and usually damp. The weather in Seattle reminded Aziraphale of London, but not in the most complimentary of ways. He huddled in his scarf and thick sweaters even in class, clutching a thermos of cocoa. Despite the unpleasant weather, Crowley was still vibrant in lecture, making even the most dull or unpleasant material interesting. Finals crept ever closer, and with that, the end of the semester and potentially the end of Aziraphale’s student-teacher relationship with Crowley.

The course catalogue for the spring semester came out just before Thanksgiving break, so Aziraphale had the long weekend to contemplate it. Anathema and Newton had both gone home to their families for the holiday, so Aziraphale had Thanksgiving dinner with an old friend, Madame Tracy, a psychic whose shop was around the corner from the bookshop, and her surly roommate, Shadwell. Aziraphale had known them both for almost as long as he’d lived in Seattle, and he still didn’t know what Shadwell did for a living, or even the man’s first name. He was a character, for sure, but Tracy seemed to like him, so Aziraphale tolerated him for her sake.

He still hadn’t decided what to register for by the time Anathema returned, smelling of snow despite the fact that there was no snow within a hundred miles. She swore it was a Boston thing, the one time he’d asked. “So, you going to audit again?” she asked, when she saw him staring morosely at the open course catalogue.

“I was going to, yes,” he said, flipping the page idly. “But I’m not sure what.”

“Crowley teaches Ethics 102 in the spring,” she said, expression sly, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Though, if you’re going to ask him out, you probably shouldn’t register for one of his classes.”

“I never said I was going to ask him out!” Aziraphale insisted, coloring, and Anathema laughed.

“Ask who out?” Newton asked, coming in the front door and shaking his head to free some of the water droplets from his hair. Anathema handed him a towel, and he smiled gratefully.

“Aziraphale has a crush on his ethics professor, and _I_ think he should ask him out,” Anathema said, breezing past him to deposit her coat and massive tote bag in the backroom.

“Professor Crowley?” Newton asked, and Aziraphale was reminded that he had gone to UW, too. Newton squinted. “Yeah, he seems nice enough. And Anathema says he talks about you.”

“Anathema Device, you are such a gossip,” Aziraphale mock-scolded as she reappeared from the backroom. She smiled sunnily at him and wandered over to reorganize the cookbooks. “I don’t know why I hired you.”

“Because I warned you to fix that support beam, and when the contractors came they said I was right and doing the work preventatively probably saved you thousands of dollars?” Anathema suggested. The woman was, Aziraphale had to admit, either extremely perceptive or possibly slightly psychic. She and Tracy got on like a house on fire, to the surprise of no one.

Aziraphale waved his hand dismissively. Newton disappeared into the backroom as well, and Anathema came over to look at the catalogue over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You know there’s a religion class you could audit,” she said, with a cheeky grin. “If you get very lucky, I might be your TA.” Aziraphale sighed and closed the catalogue, tucking it under the counter where he could ignore it in peace.

It was a little crowded with all three of them working, but the closer they got to Christmas, the more people Aziraphale had to scare away from his books, and Anathema and Newton could generally be trusted to sell books only to the most worthy. With Newton’s return, he went into the backroom himself, to get a cup of tea and ignore his younger companions.

***

Aziraphale waited until the last minute to register, and then signed up for the introductory religion class Anathema had suggested with a feeling he might be making a mistake. Then he focused his attention on the final paper--a defense of an ethical framing they hadn’t covered in class--and studying for the final exam.

Technically, he wasn’t required to do any of the work as assigned, or even sit the exams, since he was just auditing the class. But, as something of both a completionist and a perfectionist, he had asked permission to do both, for the full experience. The email he’d received from Professor Crowley when he’d asked, before he’d even met the man, had been bemused but had given him the ok, warning him that if he or his TAs were too busy they might not bother to grade his work. Aziraphale had considered that a fair-enough trade.

And now here he was, staring at the draft of his paper, painstakingly typed using the word processor on his creaky old laptop, argument and evidence and pages of footnotes and neatly-formatted bibliography. Even when he’d been in college the first time, his advisor had bemoaned his affection for footnotes, but Aziraphale had never broken himself of the habit. At least he confined his tangents to the bottom of the page, rather than letting them run wild in the body of the text.

“How’s it going?” Anathema said, peering over his shoulder, having snuck up on him where he was working in the backroom rather than restoring the family bible that was his current commission.

“Lord above,” he said, clutching his chest. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that.”

“I guess you should put a bell on me,” Anathema said breezily, practically floating over to the kettle to make herself another cup of tea.

“Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?” he grumbled, carefully saving the document and going through the multi-step process to shut down the laptop so it would turn back on again in the future.

“Eh, it’s emptier than the university library after finals out there,” she said, shrugging. “You need a new laptop.”

“Yes, probably,” he agreed with a sigh, stroking his hand over the old thing’s slightly battered case. “After the advance for my next restoration project, I can probably start putting some money aside.”

“See if you can use the student discount,” she said ruthlessly. “Have you decided whether you’re going to ask Crowley out?”

“Anathema!” Aziraphale scolded, but she was unrepentant. “I am his student! It’s highly inappropriate.”

“You’re _auditing_ ,” she pointed out. “And after finals, you won’t even be that, unless you registered for another of his classes. Did you?” Aziraphale shook his head. “Good. See? No conflict.”

“I have no way of knowing if he’s interested in me,” Aziraphale said, wiggling slightly in agitation. “I don’t even know if he’s gay!”  
  


“He’s not,” Anathema said, as the kettle whistled and she measured out water into two cups. “He’s pan. He shows up at the department Pride event every year wearing a pan flag as a cape and daring people to be phobic about it.”

Aziraphale felt a little hopeful bubble in his chest, even as he tried to discourage the feeling. “I want to get through finals first,” he said firmly, tone more sure than his head. “Then we’ll see.” He thanked Anathema when she handed him a cup of tea and sat down across from him. “I don’t even know the man’s first name!” he pointed out, when the silence started to get uncomfortable, a trick he knew Anathema utilized frequently, but that he still fell for fairly regularly. “It wasn’t on the syllabus, and he has it blocked on his office door.”

“It’s Anthony, but he never uses it,” Anathema said with a laugh. “He tried to get it kept out of the staff directory even, though it didn’t work. Don’t use it if you want him to like you even a little bit.”

Aziraphale nodded, idly wondering why the man hated his given name so much. _If you go out with him, someday you might find out_ , a rebellious little voice inside him said, but he ignored it. “After finals, we’ll see,” he said aloud, for what felt like the hundredth time. Anathema smirked over the rim of her mug. “Get back out there and don’t sell any books, alright?”

She laughed and waved with her free hand, heading back into the shop.

“Oh, Anathema,” he called, and she turned back. He blushed, but forced himself to push through. “How does he take his coffee?”

Anathema tossed her head back in laughter. “I’ll text you some suggestions,” she said, disappearing back into the shop to scare off tourists and sticky-fingered children alike. Aziraphale smiled to himself, trying to feel pleased and not terribly nervous, and buried his nose in his tea.

***

Finals were over and papers turned in the next time Aziraphale stopped by Crowley’s office, a carefully selected cup of coffee clenched tightly in one hand. Aziraphale had received the notification that his work had been graded (and that it was irrelevant since he was merely auditing), so the first available day he could let Anathema and Newton mind the shop--Newton was not allowed to watch over the shop on his own, not after The Incident--Aziraphale decided he would go to campus, despite the 25 minute bus ride and the walk in Seattle’s cool, damp winter weather.

The campus was mostly empty since the semester was over, but the coffee shop Anathema had suggested was open and Aziraphale was able to get a cortado in an insulated paper cup. He made his way across campus to the philosophy department’s offices, and knocked on Crowley’s door, which was propped open slightly.

“Come on in,” Crowley’s voice called, and Aziraphale did as he was told, opening the door the rest of the way and stepping inside. The room was as he remembered it: slightly dimmer than the usual office, and cluttered with plants, though some looked to be pulled back into themselves slightly for the winter. “Hang on a sec,” Crowley said, not looking up from where he was typing furiously at his laptop. Aziraphale settled into one of the guest chairs to wait.

“OK, all done,” Crowley said, looking up with a slight smile. “Interdepartment drama, what can you do? Didn’t expect to see you again,” he added, leaning back in his chair, but he didn’t seem displeased to see Aziraphale. “What brings you to my humble home-away-from-home?”

“I, ah, wanted to thank you for a very interesting experience, and to bring you a coffee,” Aziraphale said, placing the cup on the desk and nudging it forward to Crowley could reach it without their hands actually touching. “This isn’t the first class I’ve audited, but it may have been the most enjoyable.”

“Cheers,” Crowley said, taking the cup and taking a long sip. “Mm, is this a cortado from Cafe Solstice?” Aziraphale nodded. “How on earth did you know this was my favorite?”

“I may have had a spy,” Aziraphale admitted, looking down at his hands. This was a terrible idea, he knew it. “Anathema Device? She works for me at my bookshop.”

Crowley threw back his head, laughing, and Aziraphale smiled despite himself. He really did have such a lovely laugh. “I knew she was up to something,” he said. “Anyway, you liked the class? I try to make it interesting, especially because I know most of the students in the room aren’t all that interested in philosophy.”

“Oh yes, it was quite fascinating,” Aziraphale said, trying not to gush but not really able to help himself. "I majored in English back in university, so I took a little philosophy, but it was so dry and dull. And, well," he looked down, coloring slightly. "My professors were much less interested in diversity of thought back then."

Crowley laughed, a bitter edge to it. "I'm sure my professors were much the same," said, taking another sip of the coffee Aziraphale had brought him. "You would not believe how much of a fight it was when I wanted to introduce women and non-Western philosophers to some of my intro classes, back when I was first hired. I thought I'd lose my job before I even stepped foot in a classroom."

Aziraphale thought back to some of his stodgy, misogynistic professors, especially the ones when he went for his Masters in library science, after he moved to the States. Despite the majority of each class being women, the professors were still mostly men, and mostly…problematic. "I can imagine," he said.

Crowley took a long slug of his coffee, and Aziraphale tried not to stare at the way his throat worked when he swallowed. "So, why are you really here?" he asked, putting down the empty cup with a click.

"Pardon?"

"You could have emailed me, if you just wanted to thank me for a good semester," Crowley said. "Your shop is in Fremont, which is a bit of a trip to get from there to here. There's basically fuck-all going on on campus right now. And you brought me a coffee. Why are you really here?"

Aziraphale swallowed, feeling Crowley's eyes on his despite the other man's sunglasses. Distantly, he wondered what color eyes he had, and if he had some kind of vision problem to explain the lenses' constant presence. "I, ah," Aziraphale began, wishing he'd put more thought into what he would say. All his focus had been on just _getting_ here. "Well, I don't even know if you'd be interested, and I don't know the ethics of it, since I was your student, but the semester is over, and I was only auditing, anyway," Aziraphale rambled, and Crowley started to grin. "But I wanted to know if you might want to get a coffee sometime. Or dinner! Maybe after the winter hols, so it's fully into next semester." He stopped and took a breath, feeling a little light-headed. "As a date, if that wasn't obvious."

Crowley's smile widened, but it didn't seem mocking, so Aziraphale tried to not take offense. "Did you breathe at all that whole time?" he asked, a chuckle in his voice.

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale said faintly.

"And it's clear you thought about the ethics involved, so I guess good on me for teaching you that much," he said, smile growing broader. "I'd have to check the code of conduct, but I don't think there's any reason we can't go out now that our academic relationship is at an end. I'd like to," he added. "Just so we're on the same page."

Aziraphale let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed back in the chair, unclenching fingers that had been gripping the armrests tightly. "Good, that's good."

"Here, give me your number," Crowley said, slipping a slim black phone from his pocket and fiddling with it for a moment before passing it to Aziraphale, open to a _new contact_ screen. Aziraphale entered his information, typing carefully as he always did on smartphones, and then passed it back. Crowley’s thumb swept over the screen for a few seconds, and then the phone in Aziraphale’s own pocket went _ding_. “There, now you have my number. We’ll make some plans for January, yeah? After the first week of classes, though, I’m always swamped with transfers and wait lists and all that tosh.”

Aziraphale nodded mutely, resisting the desire to reach into his pocket and clutch the phone tightly. This could all still fall through, of course, but it was _something_.

***

Aziraphale was waiting for the bus back to his shop in Fremont when his phone dinged again. Carefully extricating it from his pocket, he saw that he had two messages from an unknown number; a third came in as he was fumbling to open the messaging app.

_hey, it’s me, Crowley_

_CoC says we’re good to go, though I can check with the dean if you’re really feeling paranoid_

_you have very nice eyes, by the way, I can say that now_

Aziraphale blushed slightly, hoping the blushing of his cheeks was hidden by the color added by the wind, and added Crowley’s number to his contacts. Then, smiling, he slowly started to text back.

_No, I trust your judgment, re: the code of conduct and the dean._

_I’ve never seen your eyes, but I’m sure they’re very nice, too._

_I happen to enjoy the way your hair catches the light when you’re under the windows at the front of your lecture hall. Like sparks coming off a hearth fire._

Aziraphale clutched the phone tightly, wondering if he was being too forward. It had been a long time since he’d dated; after a disappointing series of first dates over the span of a few years after coming to the States, most of whom hadn’t bothered to call him back, he’d largely given up. Anathema teased him occasionally, but she was empathetic enough to know it was a sore spot. Newton was largely oblivious to the fact that Aziraphale existed outside the shop at all, and Aziraphale had eventually persuaded Tracy to keep her condoling looks--and her offers for luck-in-love charms--to herself.

The phone pinged again almost immediately, and Aziraphale almost dropped it in his haste to unlock the screen, smiling when he saw what it contained:

_uh oh, forgot for a mo you were an english major. should I be expecting more poetry in the future?_

Aziraphale chuckled and typed back:

_That was poetic imagery, dear boy, and only if you deserve it_.

Aziraphale watched the little bubble that indicated that Crowley was typing so intently, he almost missed his bus. He shoved the phone into his pocket to deal with ORCA cards and finding a seat, then retrieved the phone as soon as he was seated, not even considering reaching for his book.

_I suppose I’ll have to be very good then...or else very, very bad_

Aziraphale laughed, and shook his head, clinging to the device the whole ride home.

***

Aziraphale and Crowley texted almost daily, now that they’d traded numbers. It was like a dam had burst: where once Aziraphale had barely been able to speak in the professor’s presence, now he was comfortable talking to him about almost everything, trading stories of bizarre restoration customers for Crowley’s tales of woe dealing with end-of-semester administrata. Crowley was flying back to London for Christmas, to celebrate with his sister and her husband and son, and Crowley sent him pictures of airports and lopsided Christmas trees and hastily-wrapped presents.

Aziraphale celebrated Christmas on his own, but he sent Crowley a picture of the little spread he’d ordered from the local market, a Christmas feast just for one. Crowley sent a selfie back in return, pulling a face with a blurry background, and Aziraphale smiled, less lonely than he might have expected.

Tracy dragged him out for New Years’ Eve, to a too-loud party at a bar he wouldn’t have gone to even on a regular night. He stayed until midnight, graciously accepted her kiss on the check when the ball dropped, and then made his escape not long after. The text from Crowley, reading simply _HNY, angel_ , warmed him for the entire walk back to his flat.

***

Their texts slowed down a little as the school year got started, as Crowley warned him they might. Aziraphale himself was distracted with his own new course, an intro to world religions taught by a chatty ex-nun that Aziraphale knew by the end of the first session was going to give him a headache. And, for better or worse, Anathema _was_ one of the TAs, though thankfully not assigned to his recitation section. She was bound to tease him enough as it was.

Despite being the one to ask for a date in the first place, Aziraphale was hesitant to take the final step and actually message Crowley to schedule it. Sure, they’d been messaging almost constantly for close to a month, but what if Crowley changed his mind? What if he just wanted to be friends, or was just humoring Aziraphale?

Aziraphale was sitting at the counter in the shop, the cell phone sitting next to the till, and he was staring at it so intently that he almost fell off of his stool when the text alert went off. He scrambled to keep his balance and reach for the device at the same time, and got it unlocked without any major bodily injury.

It was a message from Crowley, of course--no one texted him except Crowley--inviting him to Agrodolce, a rather nice Italian restaurant in Aziraphale’s own neighborhood. Aziraphale didn’t even check his calendar before sending back an affirmative; in the unlikely chance he _did_ already have plans, he could move them.

The text had been sent on Wednesday, and the date was on Saturday, so Aziraphale had plenty of time to tie himself in knots over it. Both Anathema and Tracy offered him hilarious, useless advice; even Newton made the cogent point that “he invited _you_ out, Aziraphale, he must want to see you,” which was actually surprisingly heartening considering that the young man was himself such a disaster.

It also had the side benefit of causing Anathema to look at Newton like she’d never seen him before, and that was amusing in and of itself.

The night of the date, Aziraphale fussed over his clothes, before deciding to go more modern than usual and wear an argyle sweater vest over a muted button-down and tan trousers. He hesitated over the bow tie but decided to wear it; it was his signature look, after all.

The night of the date was grey and cold, typical for Seattle in mid-January, but since the restaurant was only a block and a half away, Aziraphale walked, bundling up in a tan greatcoat and a tartan scarf. He gave up on his hair as a lost cause, since whatever he tried to do to style it would immediately blow away in the brief walk, and left his flat.

Crowley was waiting in the restaurant’s entryway when he arrived, looking quite dashing in a slim, black peacoat and a red scarf. He smiled brightly when he saw Aziraphale approach, and pulled him into a hug once he was within reach. Aziraphale was a little surprised, but pleasantly-so, and melted into Crowley’s arms for the moment until the taller man stepped back and led them to the host stand.

Not long after they were tucked into a booth in the back, coats and scarves hung nearby, Crowley peeling a pair of leather gloves from his hands in a way that should not have held all of Aziraphale’s attention, but somehow did. Crowley smirked when he saw him looking, and took advantage of Aziraphale’s distraction to order them wine.

The conversation flowed as easily as the wine. They split a charcuterie plate, though Crowley kept encouraging Aziraphale to have a little more, and then ordered the homemade pasta that the restaurant was famous for: puttanesca on frilly mafalde for Aziraphale and creamy carbonara with guanciale for Crowley. They shared bites, unselfconscious about it in a way Aziraphale rarely was while eating in front of others. It was perfect.

Crowley paid for dinner, despite Aziraphale’s protests, and then they scuttled across the street to Fainting Goat for gelato, laughing at the foolishness of ice cream in winter. But Aziraphale didn’t want to let Crowley go, and it seemed pretty clear Crowley was in no rush to depart, either. Crowley just had an espresso, but Aziraphale splurged and got himself sour cherry and dark chocolate, insisting Crowley try a bite. The other man grumbled, insisting he didn’t like sweets, but his silence after he tried it told Aziraphale all he needed to know.

They lingered after the coffee was gone and Aziraphale had scraped his little dish clean, standing on the sidewalk with their hands shoved in their pockets. Crowley’s expression was unreadable, with the sunglasses on even in the dark, but there was something hesitant about the tilt of his slender shoulders. Aziraphale considered for a moment, and then decided to take a chance.

“Would you like to come up to mine?” he asked, and Crowley’s head shot up from where he was contemplating the cracks in the pavement. “It’s just down the block.”

That terribly wicked smile that Aziraphale had fallen for the first day spread across his face. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot. Lead the way, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale's bookshop is absolutely not Ophelia's Books in Fremont, Seattle. They will totally sell you books! There _is_ a psychic around the corner, but I can't speak to their Tracy-ness. Agrodolce and Fainting Goat are real restaurants, and they are both lovely.
> 
> I may write more in this 'verse, if people are interested, but I have way too many WsIP right now.
> 
> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/626017845581594624/on-the-ethics-of-asking-your-professor-on-a-date)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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